THE EVENTS OF last night elbow their way through my sleep-fogged mind and an image of Amber solidifies. She is scratching Tom’s back. Such an easy, familiar gesture, like monkeys grooming each other, born of kinship and trust. Amber has always been physical, Sophie too. I fling the sheet aside and sit up, drawing my knees to my chest.
Last night I had one of my dreams. This time I was back at university and Amber had come to stay. I was trying to explain her to my housemates, particularly trying to explain why she and Tom had shared a bed and why I was on the sofa. But as I sat up and pushed the sleeping bag off I felt damp and brought my hand away and it was covered in blood. It had seeped into the cushions and I started to worry about the landlord and our deposit. Then Tom came down, in his boxers, unshaven and hungover, and I said, ‘Where’s Amber?’ He looked at me like I was mad. ‘She’s right there.’ He pointed to the corner of the room where she was sitting, her arms wrapped around her abdomen, her chin dropped on to her chest, blood puddling on the floor beside her. I can feel the horror coming back as the memory returns. Normal dreams leave nothing but a tiny, frustrating residue; these ones stick.
It was hard to go back to sleep after that. I kept trying to blank my mind, but Ian Banner and Miriam Cornwall kept barging in. In the depths of the night I convinced myself that I’d be found out. I went through the scenario over and over again; what I would say; what I would do; how I would persuade the authorities that I could be trusted with my own children.
Polly charges in and throws herself on to the bed. Tom, carrying Josh and a mug of steaming coffee, lets Josh roll out of the crook of his arm and on to my stomach. Emily has her hands hidden behind her back.
‘We brought you a present, Mummy,’ Polly says, throwing her arms around me.
Polly’s arms are a miracle. The instant they coil round me my mood lifts. I close my eyes and hug her, breathe in her morning smell and pray this never changes, that she will always want to hug me, even when she’s thirty.
‘Well, where is it?’ I ask. I pretend to look, tipping up the pillows, leaning over the edge of the bed and peering underneath. ‘Are you sure I’ve got a present?’
‘Yes!’ Emily shows her hands and reveals a book-shaped object wrapped in glittery paper and climbs up beside me. ‘Open it,’ she commands.
‘Cards first,’ Tom says, handing me three envelopes and kissing my cheek.
He hasn’t shaved since we arrived and the texture of his stubble has transitioned nicely from sandpaper to small, rough-furred animal. The last time he stopped shaving was on paternity leave. He became rumpled. I remember wanting to weep the morning he came in with my cup of tea, smooth-cheeked and shiny.
He sits beside me and I budge over for him, but Polly crams herself between us and then Emily wants to join in so I have to move even further over. I open Tom’s card. It’s a copy of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, The Lady of Shallot. Inside he’s written, Happy Birthday to my gorgeous wife, Love Tom, and a poem that makes me cringe and giggle at the same time. I am so happy, I could pop. My smile is as wide as the bed and he’s looking pretty sheepish and pleased with himself too.
‘Read it!’ Polly insists and I do as I’m told. The girls think it’s the best thing ever written.
There are not many words that rhyme with Vicky
And this is no time to be choosy or picky.
So Victoria, I adore-yer,
Irritations I ignore-yer,
With my love I won’t bore-yer,
Happy birthday, Victor-yer!
‘You are a very talented man.’
The kids shove their cards under my nose. Josh has done a bright-yellow handprint. Both Polly and Emily have drawn a family holding hands under a huge yellow sun.
I trace the figures with my finger. ‘Is that me? I’m not that beautiful!’
‘Yes you are,’ Polly insists and kisses my cheek. ‘You are the most beautiful mummy in the world.’
‘Thank you, darling.’
I unwrap the present and hold it, a lump in my throat. It’s a photograph in a plain black frame.
‘We got it done while you were in Bognor, cheering your mum up.’
David’s face instantly intrudes. It’s not Tom’s fault – he isn’t to know that it was taken on the day I nearly destroyed us – but I wish he hadn’t told me, not today at least.
The photograph is of Tom and the children. They are sitting on the bench in the playground and all of them, even Josh, are sporting woolly hats and huge cheesy grins. It’s a daft picture and they all look geeky, but it makes me smile. Behind them a black dog races across the Common.
‘Look at you all.’
‘The hats were Amber’s idea.’
‘Oh really? Did she take it?’ Of course she did. I’d forgotten she was with them.
‘Yeah.’ He holds out his hand and I pass it to him. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have worn the hat. I look nerdy.’
‘You look like you.’ I lean over and kiss him. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re getting something else later.’
‘What?’
‘Never you mind. It’s just something I wanted to do. To let you know how much I love you.’
‘A hot-air balloon trip?’
‘No. Stop trying to guess.’
‘We’re going to make a cake,’ Polly says, interrupting the moment as children will when they feel the attention has shifted too far from them. ‘It’s going to be chocolate.’
A taxi picks Robert up at ten and we say our goodbyes. The girls, tired from too much sun the day before, play happily in the den. We sit round the table on the terrace eating brunch and Amber hands me a card and starts to reminisce about how we met and what she thought when she first saw me and how wonderful the last few years have been because of our friendship. She hasn’t bought me a present, for which she apologizes.
‘I’ve had too much on my mind, what with the house and everything. Sorry, Vicky. I feel really guilty now.’
‘Don’t be daft. I don’t need presents.’
I can’t bear to admit to myself that things are changing; it may be because of Browning Street or there may be another reason entirely, but our relationship is not the same and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to put it right or if I even want to. I resolve to make an extra effort with her. I’m sure she still likes me – she wouldn’t be here otherwise – but something precious has been lost.
Tom reads his emails and casually swats at a persistent wasp and the children play until Amber and I deem they’ve had enough time between eating and swimming. Tom hasn’t bothered Amber about getting in the water again and nobody comments when she takes up her book and flops back on a lounger with a groan of pleasure.
Tom dives in. He’s a strong swimmer but a big splasher, his feet kicking up a tsunami. The girls, clinging to a green-and-blue striped lilo, bob up and down in the swell.